


only one place (they call me one of their own)

by above_the_fold



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Adopted Son Benji Dunn, Adorable Benji Dunn, And Ilsa Faust as The Girl Next Door, Angst, Basically the concept of Team Dad Luther but in an AU, But my bullshit sounded legit, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Featuring William Brandt as an AP Lang teacher, Fluff, Foster Dad Luther Stickell!, Foster Son Ethan Hunt, Friendship, Gen, High School, I can't believe that wasn't already a tag, I literally have no idea how the state of Virginia operates, I'm from Texas, If we're blaming anyone for this we're blaming my girlfriend, It's that found family shit, LUTHER IS TRYING HIS BEST, No caution tape to stop you otherwise, Romance, So tap/click to view the train wreck inside, Teenage Ethan Hunt, Teenage Ilsa Faust, Track Star Ethan Hunt, We've got everything you can think of, Young Benji Dunn, dubious legal proceedings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:13:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24955879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/above_the_fold/pseuds/above_the_fold
Summary: It wasn’t perfect by any means. The good days had their bad nights—the nights when Ethan came home late and Luther yelled, or when Benji woke up screaming and couldn’t be quieted back to sleep. But he’d come to love these kids quickly and unconditionally, and it was almost impossible to imagine his life before they’d entered it.-Or, the Adoption AU fic that—show of hands?—nobody asked for.Title from "Who Says You Can't Go Home" by Bon Jovi.
Relationships: Benji Dunn & Ethan Hunt, Benji Dunn & Ethan Hunt & Luther Stickell, Benji Dunn & Luther Stickell, Ethan Hunt & Everyone, Ethan Hunt & Luther Stickell, Ilsa Faust/Ethan Hunt, Minor or Background Relationship(s), William Brandt & Ethan Hunt
Comments: 22
Kudos: 43





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laura_Davis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura_Davis/gifts).



> Haven't posted in a bit, but finally finishing school and then graduating and THEN preparing for university in the fall had me really busy. Enjoy this crack (you seriously have no idea just how much this involves crack) and drop a comment with your thoughts if you're able. This is my first full-length story and I value everybody's criticism.

“Dad! Dad, tell Ethan to hurry or we’re gonna be late!”

It still gave Luther a bit of a shock to hear his adopted son call him “Dad.” Benji had been living with him for a year and a half and they’d come a long way from “Mr. Stickell” and before that (worse) “sir,” but he’d never stressed the issue at any point—to either of his sons. Ethan, his foster son, was sixteen and old enough to decide he didn’t need another dad in his life—just somebody who cared enough to get on his ass about his low history grades, and to come to his fall track meets, and to make sure he ate at least two vegetables a day. And he had that easily in Luther.

And he also still had vivid memories of his mother and stepfather, who had been killed in a car wreck near the end of Ethan’s freshman year—the only family Ethan had left. His father had been out of the picture since he was a baby, and a routine social services call a few weeks after the accident revealed nothing surprising: Nathan Hunt was in no way interested in caring for his fourteen year old son (neither was his wife.) From what the state could tell Luther, Margaret Ethan had been a good woman who’d done nothing but right by her only son, as had her husband, David. There’d been no signs of any drunk or impaired driving on the night of their deaths, no traffic laws broken—not even a mechanical issue with the car. Just an honest, tragic accident that had left two innocent people dead and a teenage boy alone.

Until he’d found a home with Luther after eighteen months in the system. The social worker had warned the man about Ethan’s “reckless and impulsive behavior,” which had gotten him removed twice from his previous foster home (both times for running away) but that had just solidified his resolve to take this kid in and give him a home that he didn’t feel the need to run from.

Ethan didn’t _need_ another parent in his life—but if that ever changed, Luther was glad to be there. 

There was also the issue of the court determining adoption as unnecessary in Ethan’s case. By the time Luther would be permitted to legally enter the adoption proceedings, Ethan would be seventeen, and a year from becoming legally independent. It wouldn’t make much sense, the social worker had pointed out, and it wasn’t guaranteed to go through, either. It was in Ethan’s and the family’s best interest to simply reapply for temporary guardianship every six months.

Benji was a different story. Luther remembered the news that had broken in 2015 when the Syndicate, one of the world’s most notorious terrorist organizations, bombed MI6 headquarters in London. Benji’s parents had been among the civilian casualties—a terrible case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time (Luther had later learned from Benji’s social worker that Mr. Dunn’s body had never been recovered.) Shortly after the funerals had been held and Solomon Lane had been apprehended as the head of the Syndicate, Benji had been flown to the United States to live with his mother’s sister and her family, a hasty arrangement that hadn’t ended well after two years. Benji’s aunt had had enough of his “abnormal and frightening precociousness,” and claimed that the boy didn’t play well with his younger cousins. She had signed him over to the state of Virginia’s foster care system shortly before his tenth birthday, and he’d spent a year in various foster homes before Luther adopted him.

Adoption had been a much longer, _much_ more difficult process. After nearly a year of fostering Benji, Luther had submitted a formal request to adopt the nearly-twelve year old boy. That was met with the required 30-day wait period for the request to be processed in court, and then followed by a series of house visits and social services meetings that worried Benji and deeply stressed Luther (though he was mindful not to show it.) The whole process was compounded by Ethan’s arrival and Luther’s desire to take him in after a trial period, but by June 2019 he had custody of both boys—one temporary and one permanent. 

The decision to adopt Benji, and later to foster Ethan, had been two of the greatest decisions he’d ever made. The little house that had been solitary for the better part of fifteen years was now loud and messy and it meant _home_ for three people. There was a permanent pile of shoes in the entryway for people to trip over and an obscene amount of peanut butter in the kitchen cabinet. The calendar was marked with track meets and dentist appointments and school holidays. Luther and Ethan argued about grades and curfew. Benji still had nightmares about his parents’ deaths, and Luther sometimes woke up to Benji’s feet in his face after the boy had had a particularly bad dream and climbed into his bed (though that was occurring less frequently as Benji progressed in his therapy sessions.)

It wasn’t perfect by any means. The good days had their bad nights—the nights when Ethan came home late and Luther yelled, or when Benji woke up screaming and couldn’t be quieted back to sleep. But he’d come to love these kids quickly and unconditionally, and it was almost impossible to imagine his life before they’d entered it.

He was in their tiny kitchen, phone jammed awkwardly between his ear and his shoulder, busy fixing Benji a lunch as he listened to the automated message from Ethan’s school. _Couldn’t have picked a worse day for a parent meeting,_ he scowled, throwing sandwich ingredients a little haphazardly back in the fridge. Tuesdays were the only days he was required to go into the office, and he worked late on most of them already. Today was no different—he was slated to train a group of new hires, being the most senior security analyst in his division. And now he had Parent Night at 6:30.

“Dad!”

Benji came skidding into the room, _Star Trek Beyond_ backpack slung over one thin shoulder. Luther was amazed the bag didn’t split open from the sheer weight of books crammed inside it. He tore through whole series of novels in just days, and Ethan was more than happy to drive him to the library on weekends—he enjoyed reading as much as the younger boy—to find something new, but sometimes Luther wondered whether he ought to encourage his son to do something else once in a while.

“Dad, tell Ethan to—”

“I heard you,” Luther sighed, sticking bread in the toaster for him. “Watch your toast,” he instructed, and made his way down the hallway.

He could hear faint music over the splashing. Pounding on the door, he attempted to yell over the noise. “Ethan?”

The shower stopped. “Yeah?”

“You’re running late,” Luther told him. “Your brother’s worried.”

The shower started again with a muffled swear. Luther rolled his eyes and banged on the door again. “Five minutes, you hear me? And what’s this Parent Night thing the school called me about? What did you do?”

He heard a small laugh. “Nothing. It’s just a thing. All the parents go and like—talk to the teachers and stuff.” There was a pause. “You, uh—you don’t have to go, you know. It’s not required or anything—”

“I know. I want to,” Luther called, determined to make him believe it. He would never outright admit it, but he enjoyed going to the boys’ various school functions. He went to Ethan’s track meets and Benji’s science fairs and was glad of his ability to work from home so that he never missed one. Ethan would always look surprised but pleased to see him in the bleachers with the other parents; Benji would run over and drag him to his table, talking a mile a minute about something way over Luther’s head (computer analyst though he was.)

“Okay,” Ethan called back—he could hear the grin in his voice—and the shower stopped again. Satisfied that he was hurrying, Luther left him to it.

Benji was chewing on a piece of slightly burned toast when he returned to the kitchen. His eyes were wide. “I have a math test today.”

“Ethan’s coming,” Luther reassured him. “Let me get ready for work and I’ll quiz you on your math.”

He was reaching for his hat, half-listening to Benji chattering about radicals and rational numbers, by the time Ethan barreled into the room, truck keys in hand. His hair was damp from the shower, flopping down over his forehead, and he had only one shoe on as he hopped toward the door. 

“Let's roll, Benji," he said, smirking as the younger boy giggled. "Sorry, Luther, no time for breakfast, we've gotta—”

Luther tossed him an apple. “Where's your jacket?”

Ethan gestured down at his faded track hoodie, nonplussed. He was met with Luther's raised eyebrow, and huffed. 

“It's barely forty degrees out,” the older man called after him as he ducked back into his room. He reappeared with his worn leather jacket slung over one arm and his other shoe on.

“ _Now_ we're leaving,” he announced, lifting his sports bag over his shoulder. “C’mon, Benji, traffic is gonna be terrible by your school.”

“Lunch, Benji,” Luther reminded him, and the boy dashed into the kitchen to retrieve it. He bent down slightly as thin arms wrapped around his waist. “Have a good day, kiddo. Good luck on your test.”

Benji smiled brightly at him before scrambling after Ethan, who was halfway out the door, yelling a goodbye over his shoulder just before the door slammed and the house was mercifully quiet. Luther waved from the window as Ethan backed the old Ford out of the driveway, Benji in the passenger seat looking thrilled to be riding in front (Ethan always got the front seat when Luther drove, and he never let them hear the end of it.)

It had been a good idea to help Ethan get his license, he mused as he stepped out onto the porch, buttoning his coat. The kid had gotten his learner’s permit a month after he’d moved in with Luther (with the original intent of being able to drive himself to weekend track practices) but he was reluctant to drive anywhere, even with Luther in the car. The older man suspected (quite accurately) that his reluctance stemmed from memories of his parents’ deaths, and they’d taken things slow until Ethan had completed the required practice hours and taken his driver’s test, a week after his sixteenth birthday. He was noticeably more relaxed behind the wheel, but very careful on the road, particularly when Benji was in the car.

Luther backed the Jeep out into the road, pleased to notice a “Sold” sign in the yard across the street. The house had been empty since the Nordoff-Hall family had moved out—Ethan had been steadily dating their daughter and had been heartbroken when they’d left at the end of the summer. It had hurt to see him so torn up, but once the new school year had started—and track season along with it—he’d quickly become distracted.

His phone vibrated in his coat pocket.

_Ethan, 8:24 AM_

_just dropped benji off_

He exhaled, relieved. So Benji hadn’t been late for his test.

But he also knew that Benji’s school was nearly a twenty minute drive from the house, and they’d left late this morning—at 8:15, to be precise.

_Me, 8:29 AM_

_And how much of a speeding ticket did you rack up?_

_Ethan, 8:29 AM_

_ha ha no traffic was good today_

_Ethan, 8:30 AM_

_i didn’t speed_

_Ethan, 8:32 AM_

_fine a little bit but benji told me to. no ticket i promise_

Luther rolled his eyes.

_Me, 8:37 AM_

_Text me when you get to school. Focus on the road._

_Ethan, 8:37 AM_

_yes sir_

They were good kids. It was difficult sometimes to keep up with Benji—he was a smart little thing, insatiably curious, and it was often very easy to forget that he was only eleven years old until Luther saw him building with Legos or watching cartoons. He had what could only be described as hero worship for Ethan, who he introduced to everybody as his older brother. He would sit in a chair beside Luther and watch him work for hours on end, asking endless questions about the systems that the man investigated. And the kid could eat—Luther had no idea where he put it all. He barely weighed 100 pounds soaking wet.

Ethan was every bit as bright, even if he was more reserved, but where Benji’s interests seemed to lie in math and science, Ethan preferred to read a novel or draw a picture. He had excellent grades in his pre-calc and physics classes—he spent some evenings teaching Benji everything he knew, to the boy’s delight—but he was most often seen with a book in his lap or doodling on a blank page in his notebook. And he had a huge soft spot for his foster brother that he wasn’t ashamed of. He would do anything for him—including, apparently, risking a speeding ticket.

Luther smiled to himself and drove on, making a mental note to talk to his supervisor about leaving early.

  
  



	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back omg

“This jacket makes you look like a spy,” Benji said, running a hand over the faded leather that had been tossed on the console between them. 

Ethan, gazing intently at the road, grinned vaguely. “A spy?”

Benji nodded. “I think you should wear it more. You look like James Bond.”

He pretended to scoff, affronted. “I am _way_ cooler than James Bond.”

“Nuh uh!” Benji cried. “James Bond can drive a motorcycle, Ethan!”

“So could I.”

“You could _not,_ ” the younger boy countered. “Dad would never let you.”

“Probably not,” he agreed, a little ruefully. Luther wasn’t overprotective or overbearing by any means, but he was… a practical man, and Ethan couldn’t imagine him having anything to do with a motorcycle.

Satisfied that he’d won their argument, Benji turned the conversation to his math test. Ethan quizzed him as best he could as he navigated through the slow-moving neighborhood traffic. He himself was going to be late for first period, he knew, but Benji’s school started in ten minutes and he could _feel_ the younger boy’s anxiety at the thought of missing his test.

“Eth- _annn_!” he cried as they slowed for a red light.

“I’m doing the speed limit, buddy,” he assured. _Not that anybody else is,_ he thought ruefully as an SUV blew past them.

“Can’t you go _faster_?” Benji said, worried eyes on the dash clock. “I wouldn’t tell…!”

Ethan hesitated, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter as the light changed and he eased into a left turn. Luther had always told him it was safer to cut a bit above the limit if everyone else was doing so—and Benji’s school was still a good fifteen minutes away. 

“...Fine. Don’t tell Luther,” he said, and had to return the boy’s toothy grin. 

“I won’t!”

* * *

Ilsa was completely lost.

She’d left the office ten minutes ago, a late pass in one hand and a copy of her schedule in the other. She was supposed to find… AP English with Mr. Brandt, but every door she passed gave no indication that she was in the right place. The hallway had emptied a few minutes ago, and she was too stubborn (not _timid,_ as her mother would call it, far from it) to go back and ask the secretary for directions. 

Around the corner, she slammed into someone with such force that it knocked her backward, her camera bag slipping from her shoulder before she could right herself.

“Oh—”

The boy snatched it up just before it hit the floor, eyes wide. “Here, I—”

He stopped, apologetic expression disappearing as a slow smirk spread across his face. His dark hair was a mess, undoubtedly from the blustering wind outside. He wasn’t much taller than herself, with a slightly stocky build that suggested he was an athlete of some kind, though naturally slim. He was rather good-looking—unfairly so, Ilsa thought, because just then she _hated_ that stupid grin on his face.

“Sorry about that, but hey. Lucky I was here, right?”

She scoffed, snatching the bag back. “For what? Nearly knocking me down?”

_You nearly knocked_ me _down._ Ilsa saw it in his eyes, on the tip of his tongue, and decided she’d heard enough. Ignoring him entirely, she started up the hallway again without a backwards glance. “Are you new here? Don’t think I’ve seen you around, I definitely would have remembered—”

She walked faster. 

“Are you new here?” he asked again, and Ilsa heard him following her at a distance.

_Obviously,_ she bit back. Not that she would give him any cause to believe she had _no clue_ where she was going. Like hell. 

“If you’re lost let me help you find—”

She whirled around. “I don’t have to _let_ you do anything.”

He threw his hands up, stepping back. “I know you don’t. But, well, if you _are_ new… I can show you where to go, is all I meant.”

She exhaled, so forcefully that she felt loose strands of hair brush her face. “Fine, then. I’m looking for my English class.”

He seemed to brighten at that. “AP? With Brandt?”

She nodded stiffly, hoping beyond hope that his sudden elation didn’t mean what she thought it might.

But he simply smirked again—the nerve!—and pointed to a door just behind her. 

Ilsa huffed and shoved past him, intending to shut the door in his laughing face before he could get another sly word in, but he merely stuck his foot out and caught it, putting a finger to his lips and slipping around her. 

To her satisfaction, the door slammed behind her, announcing them both.

* * *

William Brandt had taught English for six years, the last two in Arlington, Virginia. He was from California, born and raised, and he’d wound up on the East Coast after four years at New York University. He’d started out teaching in East Harlem, and was greatly disheartened until offered a job at J.F. Dulles High School in Virginia. 

He’d never planned on becoming a teacher. He had enrolled as an International Relations major for a single semester at NYU, intent on following in his father’s footsteps and hoping to work for the CIA once he graduated, but he’d switched to Secondary Education with a specialization in English after some long conversations with a particularly influential former teacher back home.

Brandt bitterly despised the cold but thoroughly enjoyed his job, and that more than made up for it. He commiserated with his students, to their delight, but his class was often the subject of their misery, to his amusement. Few students enjoyed the essay part of his class; fewer excelled at it. This year’s class was a bright group, but they were still very much in the formative stage of the course—dragging through the weekly practice essays he assigned, figuring out their strengths and weaknesses in preparation for May’s exam. 

But there were the exceptions. Julia Meade, who from what he could tell had zero aspirations to do anything writing-related for a career. She came from a family of doctors and was working hard to maintain her position at the top of her class—likely following in someone’s footsteps. Jane Carter was another one. She wrote so assertively and with such passion that Brandt easily envisioned her as a lawyer, or a journalist.

And Ethan Hunt, whose writing skill he’d been aware of ever since his analysis of H.G. Wells’ _The Invisible Man_ had been passed around the teacher’s lounge by his amazed freshmen English teacher.

Ethan Hunt, who was currently attempting to sneak in seven minutes late.

A quick glance up from his computer stopped the kid in his tracks; another at the calendar on his desk showed the date. _He’s always late on Tuesdays._

“You got a late pass, Hunt? A note? A questionably valid excuse?”

There was scattered laughter. Ethan grinned, having the sense to look mildly abashed. “Sorry, sir. Had to take my brother to school.”

Brandt sighed, waving him on to his seat. “One more tardy and I’ve gotta report you to Vice Principal Hunley.”

“I drove as fast as I could,” was the insolent reply as the kid dropped into his seat. To his right, Jane Carter smirked, ignoring his scowl.

“I don’t doubt it,” he replied, turning from his desk and catching sight of a figure at the door. “Hi, there. Can I help you?”

The girl stepped forward, handing him a late pass and shooting an impressively narrowed look at Ethan, who simply grinned back—a bit uncomfortably, Brandt noticed, and had to smother a laugh. “Ilsa Faust. I just transferred.”

“All the way from England?” he asked, noting her accent.

“Yes, sir. My parents are with the UN.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Hunt staring at them, as if hanging onto the girl’s every word. “Well, welcome to AP English, Miss Faust,” he said, slightly bemused. “Grab this week’s essay from that box over there and take a seat anywhere. We’ll start getting you caught up tomorrow.” 

He chose to ignore the muffled “Oh, shit” from Ethan’s direction that told him the kid had forgotten to grab a copy of the assignment. Returning his new student’s small smile, he opened his lesson plans and tried not to bust up laughing.

* * *

Luther managed to find a decent parking spot just before 6:30; Benji had been picked up from school and dropped off at a friend’s just in time for him to get back across town to Ethan’s school. He joined the short line of parents waiting for a copy of their student’s schedule, and pulled out his phone. 

_Me, 6:34 PM_

_I’m here. They’re giving me a copy of your schedule._

_Me, 6:35 PM_

_How do these things go?_

“And who’s your student, sir?” 

He glanced up, unaware that he was next in line. “Ethan Hunt.”

“Grade?”

“He’s a junior.”

_Ethan, 6:37 PM_

_yah you’re just going around to all of my classes_

_Ethan, 6:37 PM_

_the teachers will tell you how i’m a terrible student ha_

_Ethan, 6:38 PM_

_there may be some forms idk_

He took the outstretched packet of papers with a nod of thanks and stepped out of line. Sure enough, beneath the pink copy of Ethan’s schedule was a bundle of paperwork. He sighed.

_Me, 6:40 PM_

_I better not hear that. You were right about the forms._

_Ethan, 6:40 PM_

_you know my history teacher will say that. we’re going to jane’s after practice, i’ll be home by eleven_

_Ethan, 6:41 PM_

_is that ok?_

_Me, 6:43 PM_

_That’s fine._

“Parents, you’ll be attending your students’ classes starting from eighth period!” 

_How asinine,_ Luther thought, and started toward the history wing.

* * *

“Time!”

Ethan slowed to a stop beside the fence, grinning broadly. “How was that?”

Zhen smirked back. “Seven minutes, forty-six seconds.” She flipped him the stopwatch and took his place on the track.

“ _Damn_ it!” he scowled, waiting for her to get into position. “I thought I had that one under seven.”

“You’re a sprinter,” Zhen called, tying her long hair back. “That’s a decent mile for a sprinter.”

“Okay, go,” he yelled, thumbing the stopwatch and waiting until she’d rounded the first turn before making his way over to the bleachers, where Jane and her boyfriend sat passionately making out.

He spritzed them both with his water bottle, laughing and ducking as Jane threw one of his tennis shoes at him in retaliation. “The whole field can see you two.”

Trevor shrugged, adjusting the flat cap he wore with one hand as Jane pulled him back down into another kiss. “We’ve been public for a month.”

Ethan waited, slightly annoyed, for them to finish. Jane and Trevor had started dating just as he and Nyah had broken up, and it had been hard to be around them at the end of the summer while the pain was still raw. Jane was his best friend and he was happy for her, and he liked Trevor, but sometimes… they weren’t easy to be around. 

“Are you still coming over to help me with the Pride Club signs?” Jane demanded. “Julia can’t come, she’s working tonight.” 

“Yeah, Luther said it’s fine.” He scrubbed his towel across his face and reached for his bag. “Let me just shower first—”

“Hey, Ethan!”

He turned, grinning at the sight of Lindsey Farris jogging toward them. They practiced once a week with the junior varsity team in the fall, and he had quickly become friends with her.

Lindsey shrieked as he grabbed her in a sweaty side-armed hug. “You’re gross, Ethan, let go of me!”

He shoved her gently away after a moment, laughing. “Beat any records today?”

“Not today, but that’s what Saturday’s for,” she replied, wrinkling her nose. “Come help me with these hurdles. Coach says we’re done for the night.”

He handed the stopwatch off to a passing teammate and followed Lindsey to the storage shed, a hurdle under each arm. The stadium lights had flickered on two hours ago, illuminating the chilly mist that hung heavy in the air. It was a nice night to practice.

“Jane still thinks you should ask me out,” Lindsey said knowingly, propping the heavy doors open as he dragged the equipment inside. “I saw the way she was looking at us.”

He barked a laugh, lifting his head to glare playfully up at her. “I’m not asking you out, Linds. You’re like, twelve.” 

“Fourteen, asshole, and it’s not so weird. You’re only sixteen.” Lindsey studied her fingernails. “I would never date you, though. I…” Her cheeks, already pink from the evening’s exertion, flushed deeper. “You’re kind of like my brother, Ethan.” 

He smiled, straightening up and cuffing her shoulder lightly. “That’s exactly what I told Jane.”

They made three trips, shouting encouragement to Zhen as she came around her final turn, and were joined by her and her boyfriend Declan as they crossed the field with the last of the hurdles in their arms.

“FARRIS! Team picture, come on!”

“ _Shit,_ ” Lindsey said, smiling gratefully as Declan gallantly took her load from her. “I’ll be right back.”

They watched her take off toward the group gathered by the locker rooms. “Thank God we aren’t doing ours today,” Zhen said, running a hand through her messy ponytail. “I look _gross._ ” 

“You look _great,_ ” Declan corrected, leaning in and kissing her cheek as well as he could manage with his arms weighed down. 

Ethan looked away, suddenly and strangely uncomfortable, and caught a flash of red hair and dark sweater across the field. 

_Ilsa._

She was guiding people together with a patient smile on her face. Ethan recognized the camera bag he’d rescued that morning over her shoulder. _She must be on the yearbook,_ he thought, watching as she laughed at something somebody said. There was something much softer and kinder in her face just then—he could see it all the way from where he stood on the opposite side of the track. It was a stark contrast from the looks she’d fixed him with earlier; it made her even prettier, he thought. 

_I want her to look at me like that._

“Hey, Zhen—wanna race?” 

She spun around, dropping the hurdles with a clatter. “You’re on, Hunt.”

They lined up, ignoring Declan’s protests. “One time around,” Ethan said, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder to where Ilsa was still positioning people in the front row. 

“Got it,” Zhen replied, rubbing her hands together. “Three, two, _one_ —”

They shot off, shoulder to shoulder around the first turn, and Ethan started pulling ahead. He didn’t bother looking back, but kept his eyes trained forward. A few cheers went up from the still-gathered junior varsity runners as they watched them come around the second turn.

Zhen was gaining; Ilsa was still turned around, talking to one of the coaches, showing him her camera. 

“Go, Ethan!”

She looked around—

—just in time to see him land sprawling on the track, a lone hurdle collapsing behind him. He hadn’t even seen it.

There were shouts of laughter as he picked himself up and pounded after Zhen, grinning blithely as if it had all been a joke. She hadn’t stopped for anything, and crossed the line a good few seconds ahead of him, to his dismay. 

Wincing, he stopped just past her and reached down to rub at his shin. It was too dark to tell, but he could feel the start of a bruise forming.

“You okay?” Zhen asked, mildly concerned. “You fell pretty hard.” 

“Fine,” he sighed through gritted teeth. “Fine.” 

Jane and Trevor had approached them, clearly fighting the urge to laugh. Jane peered across the field, waving as Lindsey bounded toward them. “Who’s the photographer? I’ve never seen her before.”

“She’s new,” Ethan muttered, and limped toward the locker rooms.

* * *

The last door read _Brandt, AP English._ Luther checked Ethan’s schedule with a gusty sigh—while he was glad he’d come, the last two hours had been nothing but papers and slideshow presentations and overly-cheerful greetings (particularly from Ethan’s pre-calculus teacher, who he strongly suspected had been flirting with him while they discussed his last test.)

The room was empty except for a man he assumed was the teacher, bent over a computer in the far corner. He looked around as Luther entered. 

“Hi there,” he called. “I assume you’re here ‘cause your kid’s in my class.” He shot a mildly baleful look at the overheard clock. “It never ends.” 

Luther chuckled in spite of himself. “No kidding. Luther Stickell.” 

“Will Brandt,” the younger man said, offering a hand. “AP English. Nice to meet you, Mr. Stickell.”

He took the proffered hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“I’ve got Ethan’s folder right here,” he said, ducking behind his desk and missing Luther’s start of surprise.

“You knew Ethan was my—”

“He’s written about you before in some of his essays.” Brandt passed him a tan folder with “Hunt, Ethan” scrawled across the front. “Ethan is, well… he’s a damn good writer, you’ll see.”

Luther took a seat opposite the man’s desk, unable to hide his proud smirk as he thumbed through the folder’s contents. Ethan was clearly a good writer, if the grades at the tops of his papers were any indication. 

Brandt had taken a seat on the edge of his desk, arms folded loosely. “One of my best students—I was hearing about him long before he got to my class. He’s good, but… he’s been struggling lately.”

Luther glanced up sharply. _This_ was news. He had never known Ethan to lie about his schoolwork or his grades—not even his history grade, which was less than stellar. He asked regularly how his classes were going, and they had almost always appeared to be going well.

_Am I missing something?_

“He was late to class this morning.” 

Luther relaxed a little. “He took his brother to school. I work at the office on Tuesdays.”

Brandt nodded. “That’s what he told me. I didn’t think he’d lie, but he’s one tardy away from being reported.”

Luther sighed. “He can work on getting up earlier.” 

The teacher smiled slightly. “Then that isn’t my concern. His last couple essays—they aren’t in his folder yet—weren’t up to his normal standard. They dropped his grade some; nothing that can’t be fixed by the end of the semester, but I’m worried they might become a pattern. One that he can’t afford to repeat next semester.”

Luther nodded slowly, still nonplussed. Of course he wouldn’t want to see Ethan fail, especially in a subject he seemed to be very good at, but what was the concern over a couple of bad essays? Ethan was intelligent, he knew—but nobody could be expected to make perfect scores all of the time. _He_ certainly never had, and he’d graduated with a computer science degree from Cornell, of all places. 

“They have a big assignment coming up after the winter break,” Brandt continued. “In January the counselors will begin pulling them for one-on-one meetings—get them thinking about college and a career field they might want to go into. They’re going to have a paper to write for my class on what they discuss in their meetings.” He smiled, a genuine smile that took Luther a little by surprise. “What they want the future to look like.” 

Luther wasn’t a teacher—he certainly knew nothing about high school kids—but the idea sounded a little cliche. Like something Benji might do in his sixth-grade English class. 

“Ethan isn’t in danger of failing my class, by any means,” Brandt assured. “But he’s not doing as well as he could be, and… the kid’s got a good future, if that’s what he wants. This assignment would definitely help his grade next semester, but I think it would also get him thinking about his future, which is the most important thing.” 

“You’re saying he doesn’t now?” Luther frowned, more than a little worried by that. Surely Ethan realized his potential—he had good grades save history, though his teacher was convinced of his ability to reach a B- by semester’s end. He was working hard on the track for a place in this year’s regional meets, having just come shy of a qualifying spot his sophomore year. He was every bit as bright as the folder he held revealed— _surely_ he had some kind of dream for the future?

“I misspoke,” Brandt corrected, seeing his concern. “I’m not actually much aware of Ethan’s plans after high school. We’ve had a few essays dealing with time and the future that invite students to use personal examples in their responses. Most of my students love to, but he doesn’t. Always finds some other way to answer the question.” 

“Sounds about right,” Luther murmured. Even at home Ethan was reserved—never gave too much away, and never sought out anything personal in conversation if he could help it. He’d just chalked it up to the boy’s naturally quiet demeanor: never once had it occurred to him that Ethan might be struggling with something. 

“You can take his folder with you. Read some of his essays,” Brandt said gently. “I think you’ll see what I’m talking about. It isn’t a bad thing, choosing not to include personal arguments in his essays, but if…” 

“...But if it means what you think, there might be a problem,” Luther finished, sighing deeply. “I’ll talk to him.”

The door opened, revealing a middle-aged couple arguing in low, heated voices as they entered the classroom. The man had a vaguely British accent that reminded him of his younger son, who he needed to pick up soon. 

“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Faust,” Brandt said, and they immediately broke off their quarrel to smile at him. “Be right with you.” He rose with Luther, moving to shake hands again.

“Your son has a lot of potential, Mr. Stickell,” he said quietly, and Luther couldn’t doubt the sincerity in his face. “I’d just like to help him reach it.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, and sidestepped the bickering couple, Ethan’s folder tucked under one arm.

It was a lot to think about, he mused as he headed for the Jeep, and perhaps there was nothing wrong at all. But the thought of such a bright young boy ( _his_ bright young boy) without any hopes and dreams for his future was more than he could bear. He’d promised to do right by Ethan, and if it meant some heavy, uncomfortable conversations, then so be it. 

They would figure things out together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, criticism welcome.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg
> 
> Also, as a side note, I fixed a couple of things in the first chapter—Benji is 12 in this story and the year is 2019 (October.)
> 
> Enjoy! This chapter is a bit shorter than usual. Another update should come soon.

The house was quiet as Ethan kicked off his shoes and locked the door behind him. Mildly surprised that Benji hadn’t come racing around the corner to greet him, he dropped his sports bag and headed for the kitchen, suddenly ravenous.

His shin still throbbed from the spill he’d taken at practice—in the dim light of the hallway he could see the bruise forming. Jane had teased him mercilessly, because of course she had known right away that he’d been trying to catch Ilsa’s attention. Not that it had worked. She had merely turned away, busy with her camera once more, leaving him more confused than ever.

He’d seen her in his history class last period, and for all that she had just transferred in (from England, too?) that morning, she sure knew more about American history than he did—then again, the same could be said for just about everyone there, because Ethan was terrible at history. Julia had offered to tutor him plenty of times, but nothing she said ever stuck. He never saw the point in studying the past. Everyone saw it differently, anyhow.

But his eighth period had suddenly become much more interesting. He couldn’t help but stare whenever Ilsa raised her hand and spoke with a low, clear voice, one that had him hanging on every word. He’d watched the way her braided hair fell over her shoulder, the way she straightened whenever the teacher called on her, the way she smiled ever so slightly when she answered a question right. Jane would’ve embarrassed him if she’d been there to see him staring. 

He’d wanted to catch up to her after class and start over—he wasn’t even sure if she knew his _name_ —but as soon as the bell had rung she’d left without a backwards glance, phone in hand and a scowl on her face, and Ethan had thought it best not to tempt fate. _That,_ he thought ruefully as his leg smarted again, _is solid advice._

Oh, well. He’d have to try again tomorrow.

Luther sat at the kitchen table, wearing the reading glasses Ethan knew he hated. He had his laptop before him and seemed absorbed in whatever he was reading, but looked up as he entered. “How was practice?” 

Ethan dropped into the chair across from him with a slight wince as his bruised shin knocked the table leg. “Fine. Jane said to tell you hello.”

“She hasn’t been by here in a while,” the older man remarked, closing the computer. And then, because he never missed a thing, “What happened to your leg?”

Tipping his head back, he prayed that his sudden flush of embarrassment wasn’t visible. He’d done his best to play it off at the track, unable to look in Ilsa’s direction as he passed her on his way to the showers. “...Nothing serious. Just missed a hurdle.”

He scowled at the knowing look Luther shot him from over the rim of his glasses. “I didn’t _mean_ to. I just… didn’t see it.” 

He heard Luther’s chair scrape the floor and the man’s heavy footsteps as he went to grab some ice from the freezer. “Where’s Benji?”

“I sent him to bed a little while ago. He tried to wait up for you,” Luther said, and Ethan could hear the fond exasperation in his voice even as he shook his head. “He was falling asleep anyway.”

“No nightmares?” he asked, a little cautiously. It had been a few weeks since he’d been jolted awake in the middle of the night by Benji screaming. It was mostly for his parents, a fact Ethan knew killed Luther, even if he never said anything about it. Therapy once a week seemed to be helping, but Ethan had the feeling he wasn’t the only one holding his breath as they waited for the next nightmare to come. 

Luther shook his head, sighing heavily as he passed him a bag of ice wrapped in a dish towel. Ethan gratefully took it—his leg hurt like _hell_ now that he wasn’t walking on it. “Not for a while now. I can’t help but think…” he trailed off, sighing again. “There’s dinner in the oven, you hungry?” 

“Starving,” Ethan said, and rose to make a plate before the older man could get up again. 

“I was thinking—how would you feel about having a cat around here?” Luther asked as he cut a square from the leftover pasta dish he’d uncovered. He had his laptop open again, and when Ethan returned to the table and peered over his shoulder he saw an article on the benefits of animal therapy. 

“A cat? You hate cats.”

Luther scowled. “For Benji. His therapist suggested having a pet to help with the trauma process here at home.” 

“Well, you know Benji,” Ethan said around a forkful of pasta. “He’ll only want one if it’s a rescue from the shelter.”

“That’s fine. I think we’ll go this weekend, I want to talk it over with his therapist tomorrow first.” 

Ethan set down his fork. “I think it’s great,” he said seriously. “If it’ll help Benji… then yeah.”

Something softened in the older man’s gaze as he nodded. He closed his computer again and studied Ethan as he ate, something that he was fairly used to—he often saw Luther with a similar expression on his face as he watched Benji curled up on the couch reading or laughing at  _ Star Trek.  _ Ethan couldn’t quite place the meaning of the look, and focused instead on the serious business of finishing his food and going for seconds, because Luther could seriously cook when he had the time. 

“Look, Ethan… is there anything you want to talk about? Anything on your mind?”

He looked up from his plate, a heaping bite held halfway to his mouth. “Uh… is this about Parent Night…?”

Luther looked slightly amused. “Maybe. I don’t know. You tell me.”

Ethan scowled, dropping his fork. “Look, whatever my history teacher said, I—”

But Luther shook his head, smiling wryly. “I know how you feel about that class. I meant…” He gestured vaguely, but Ethan was surprised to see the worry in his eyes. “Something else at school? Or here at home?” He leaned forward, gaze searching, and Ethan fought the urge to look away. “You know you can always talk to me.”

He stared. He knew Benji told Luther everything; these kinds of talks weren’t unusual for them. Truthfully, he ached to tell him about Ilsa, to ask for some kind of advice like he hadn’t done before, after Nyah moved away and he’d been left reeling. He thought about the struggle he’d had lately in English, his best class—how much more difficult writing essays had suddenly become. He thought about how privately worried he was for Benji and his nightmares. It seemed, in retrospect, that there was indeed a lot on his mind. He opened his mouth—

—and lied through his teeth. “Nothing. So, uh,” he returned to his food, “Parent Night was good, then?”

“Your math teacher is something else,” the older man said with a short laugh, though Ethan could see something like sadness in his eyes. It unnerved him, but he grinned anyway. 

“She just got a divorce.”

A comfortable silence fell around the kitchen after that. Ethan rinsed his dishes in the sink and retrieved his sports bag from the hallway, pausing as Luther rose from the table, laptop tucked under one arm.

“I’m going to check on your brother. You staying out here?”

Ethan shook his head, suddenly exhausted. Days like these—waking up late to a full day of classes and a few grinding hours on the track—usually took a lot out of him. He was mostly grateful for that, because it didn’t allow him any time to lie awake and think at night. He hadn’t had nightmares like Benji’s in quite a while—not since his last foster placement—but sometimes the same bad thoughts persisted while he was awake. Ever since he’d moved in with Luther and Benji, he’d gotten good at staying busy enough to keep them at bay. 

He barely managed to change into sweatpants before collapsing on his bed, history homework forgotten. He heard the familiar sounds of Luther getting ready for bed, the gentle creak of Benji’s door as he checked on him the way he did every night. 

He was asleep before he could wonder whether he imagined his door opening and closing, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope your 2021 is going just ✨swimmingly✨
> 
> update soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know down below if I should continue. If this is at all interesting to anyone other than my girlfriend


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